


Black Sheep

by verevolwes



Category: Kings
Genre: Gen, Violence, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-23
Updated: 2012-09-23
Packaged: 2017-11-14 20:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verevolwes/pseuds/verevolwes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Benjamin woke up the morning after his 18th birthday in a fog.<br/>Fog is the nice way of putting it, the reality was that 12 hours before he had been beaten unconscious by his father. Happy birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've written in years.  
> Unbeta'd so I'm apologizing now for the poor (probably) quality.

He didn’t know what he planned to accomplish by stealing away into the royal vault where the crown and so many other valuables were kept, he simply went there in a rage. He saw the golden leaves woven into that gleaming ring and it made his blood boil. The crown was so imposing but so delicate as well it only made him angrier. He snatched it up, hands bare and dirty, before he even thought about what he was doing.

 _It will never be yours!_ His father had shouted. _You will never be king!_ Jack knew he wasn’t the only one having a bad day, but it was his birthday, could his father not afford him this one thing? All he had asked about was his father’s plans for succession, could he not be answered? Instead his father had quarreled with him, picking out his flaws and insulting his ambitions. When Jack retorted he was made an example of. You will never be king! Did his father have to be so harsh?

Metal, gilded metal was all it was. Far less expensive than nearly every other item in his father’s wardrobe, yet put value to something and poof, it’s priceless. How stupid.

\--

He turned his head away from the pillow and caught the sight of blood in the corner of his eye. His bed, normally a palace of comfort, couldn’t mask the amount of pain he was in this morning.

Slowly, very slowly he slid his elbows in towards his back and attempted to prop himself up a bit. It hurt, but the pain was dull in comparison to the pounding in his head. He freed himself from the comforter and arduously swung his legs over the edge of the bed. Glancing back at where he lay before he was only faintly worried about the blood he left behind. Most of it was dried, most of it, meaning that he had at least stopped openly bleeding a few hours ago.

He ran a hand up through his hair and recognized the feeling of sweat and grease and dried blood there too. He felt like he needed a shower more than he needed to breath.  
And what time was it?

\--

He found himself hating his father as he so often did, but not for many of the reasons he commonly identified. Tonight he hated his father because his father was his lifeline to god. His father had spoken with god many times, it was god who had made him king.

Jack had never spoken to god, never felt any sort of divine influence. If god spoke to or about Jack I was and would always be through Silas. If his father would not have him be king it was because god would not have him be king.

The metal pressed into the skin on his hands and Jack realized he was clutching the crown much harder than he meant to.  _It’s my birthday_ , he thought, and raised the crown up and past his head, posed to throw it to the ground.  
Until a hand caught his wrist.

\--

His feet brushed the floor, ah, there was a part of his body that didn’t hurt. He stood from the bed, swaying a bit on the spot. His phone was nowhere to be seen but if he remembered correctly there should be a clock on the wall … aha.

Nearly noon, he’d missed breakfast entirely. Not that the family probably wanted him there after … everything. Michelle would, but it’s likely that she would be alone in that view.

Shuffling slowly towards the full length mirror in the corner, he watched him image grow clearer and clearer until he could see himself framed entirely on the pane of glass.

He’d seen himself banged up before but never quite this ruined.

\--

He swung around, though he already suspected who it was, and if he were right, retaliation would be futile.

Silas stared into him, expression dead but eyes ablaze. Without releasing Jack’s wrist his other hand came up and took the crown. They both got a quick look at the red marks left behind on Jack hand where the leaves had dug in.

Jack twisted loose with minimum difficulty and started to back away from his father, vaguely aware that he was also backing into a corner. “Dad-“ he started though he had nothing to say. No excuse, no sincere apologies. He wasn’t sorry, he was sorry he’d gotten caught.

“I’m not your dad,” Silas said darkly, looking down at the crown still in his hands. “I’m your king.”

Jack started to stutter something, some ways of saving himself or something that could calm his father, but whatever it might have been was lost when the crown connected with the side of his face.

The first hit he felt, and he felt all of it, but every shot after that blurred into one another.

\--

The edges of his bruises were purple, but they slowly grew darker and more red until they reached a deep maroon in the center. A few weren’t as deep, luckily, and took on just a slight yellow, or darker brown, but the ratio of red bruises to brown bruises was worryingly unbalanced. His bottom lip was fat, and split in a few places where it had been forced too hard and too fast against his teeth.

His nose, though the bloodstains told him, had been previously bleeding, remained somewhat intact. Most noticeable was a cut running across the right side, no doubt given to him by one of the crowns many jutting gold leaves.

Remarkably neither of his eyes, though both bruised, had swelled over like he’d had happen to him a few times before. Of course something like that is better left behind by a fist then weapon.

He father had used the crown as a weapon.

Jack chuckled to himself, looking for some humor in it all to keep himself from screaming.

\--

The cool floor would have felt good on his face if it didn’t make the hot thudding of his wounds stand out even more.

He found himself faced with Silas’ shoe, and he prayed for his father to just not kick him in the face. _Or groin_ he added as an afterthought.

And maybe that prayer got though because Silas didn’t kick him in the face or groin, but the stomach. Jack thought thank god, until the force of the kick made him roll over and cough up blood.

He suffered though a few more kicks thinking that maybe if he hadn’t fought so much with boys at school, he would have been novice enough to have passed out by now.

Finally his father had had enough, and he stepped back and away from Jack. If there was any emotion on his face now, Jack didn’t see it, all he saw was the floor, speckled with his own blood. He did hear, however, his father pause by the pedestal which held the crown. A moment passed where Silas was presumably, placing the gilded treasure back on its pillow, before he turned to leave.

Love you too, dad, Jack thought before he let himself relax. Finally his world went dark.

\--

There was no decision as to whether or not Jack should leave his room. He certainly wasn’t grounded, and after last night he’d be surprised if there were to be any further punishment at all.

The decision not to get dressed, however, was entirely his. He walked slowly out of his room and down the hall in just a tee-shirt and his boxers.

When he came to the top of the stairs he was instantly noticed by Thomasina who, as it happens, notices everything. She excused herself from who she was talking to, and came about halfway up the stairs to meet him.

“Your mother wishes to speak with you.” She stated, though try as she might she could not mask the concern in her voice.

“Does she?” Jack quipped and was surprised to hear the raspiness of his own voice.

“She’s in the piano room,” She continued, “If you’ll just come with me-“

“I can get there by myself.” Jack interjected.

“Your highness …” Thomasina worried, no longer trying to hide her distress as together they reached the bottom of the stairs.

“Thank you, Thomasina, but I can get there by myself.” He said and it was final. Thomasina was nice, and her concern was sweet, but it’s not what Jack needed right now.

He continued through the halls, which were surprising short of press, but full of associates and guards, all of whom avoided Jack’s eye like the plague. Not a single person looked to him or to anything even vaguely near him. It was as if he wasn’t there. Or it was if, while he was asleep, everyone was instructed to act like nothing had happened, and the easiest way to create that illusion was to pretend like you couldn’t see the evidence right in front of your face.

He reached the piano room, and the door was open. He walked inside, refusing to turn to the portrait of his father that hung on the wall, that used to hang in his room. It used to give him nightmares, now he just lives them instead. There came the clacking of heels, two sets, and his mother and Michelle walked into the room. Immediately his sister’s hands came up to cover he mouth in shock, but she quickly put it past herself to run at Jack, and take him in her arms.

She didn’t say anything, she was probably instructed not to, Jack thought, but wrapped her arms tight around his and buried her head in his shoulder. It was not so long ago that they had been incredibly close, so he knew what she wished to say without her having to communicate it.

“Michelle,” Said their mother coolly from the fireplace, the smile on her face fake and calculated.

She pulled away, quickly though Jack could see it pained her to do so, and walked to leave. When Michelle got to the port way their mother nodded to her, she closed the large door behind her.

A beat passed, before his mother spoke. “How’re you feeling?” she asked.

That was funny. There was the irony Jack could find humor in. He turned his head to the large windows that lined the room, flooded it with midday light. “Wonderful,” he said.

“Right, well if you’re going be that way …” the Queen started and Jack folded his arms, what way, he thought. “Let me speak plainly and clearly.

“Last night while we hosted Michelle’s party here at the palace, you went out to a private club with a handful of exclusive guests, at your request, you said you didn’t want any big thing, just a night out with a few friends. Towards the end of the night you and a close acquaintance got into a disagreement over a girl you both liked. The wrong words were said and a fight broke out. Do you understand?”

His jaw tensed, but what should he have expected? The thudding in his head made him want to yell and shout and curse and swear at his mother, at the entire hush-hush pretense that was his life … but it was also what prevented him from doing so. Shouting and cursing would accomplish nothing but to split open his head from the ache that persisted, and afterward there would still remain the pretense.

“Yeah mom,” he swallowed and brought himself to mimic her face smile.

He’d have to let this go. He’d have to let this go if he ever wanted to relax in his own home again. He’d have to let this go if he ever wanted his parents to treat him like someone who can be trusted again. He’d have to let this go if there was any hope in the future for him to become king.

“There’s my good boy,” His mother said now, voice dripping with the nurturing tones that a mothers voice should. She walked over to him and clasped her hands on his shoulders, pulling him in to kiss the crown of his head.

Jack wrestled with his breathing to keep it measured and under control, and he exacted the same sedative with the muscles of his face. Nothing about this was right, but he’d have to let this go.


End file.
